


Galatea

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Pygmalion composed a sonnet of a perfect child; Leonardos abundance of sprightly curls and subtle, secretive cheek; the Rembrandt depth and mystery of mouth and fluid, flicking eyes; brilliantly vivid, smeared, suffuse colors of various impressionists; the extreme slightness and long limbs of supermodels; and of his little wife, who had been killed before she finished growing, the demeanor of essential, incorruptible goodness which had shone out of her, as tangible as breath and heat.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He succeeded.</i></p><p> </p><p>*<br/>the man clear calls grandpa/clear. i know. not technically abuse but !dubcon for suspect power structures</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galatea

Pygmalion composed a sonnet of a perfect child; Leonardos abundance of sprightly curls and subtle, secretive cheek; the Rembrandt depth and mystery of mouth and fluid, flicking eyes; brilliantly vivid, smeared, suffuse colors of various impressionists; the extreme slightness and long limbs of supermodels; and of his little wife, who had been killed before she finished growing, the demeanor of essential, incorruptible goodness which had shone out of her, as tangible as breath and heat.

He succeeded. With his own hands, soldering its sterling bones, weaving the rainbows of wires which were its million nerves, casting the crystal sheets of its milky skin, cutting the angles of its enormous and beautifully clear eyes, stitching in the December-blond eyelashes and the charming spray of spots beneath its lip, he created in the ten years of his employ a creature more beautiful than he had imagined existing, and utterly, it repulsed him.

"Good morning," it said.

He felt his mouth thin into a grimace; he pressed it with his knuckles, into his teeth. He did not reply.

"I am R-2E-054. What is your name?" It used polite and pleasant words. Its smile was a spectacle of astonishing beauty, a sunrise, a snowflake, artless and sparkling. It looked like an angel.

He stood suddenly, put aside the clipboard, walked briskly to the window, as if paying no mind to the adamantine automaton which placidly observed him. They were very high up. It was beautifully light out, intensely blue, perfectly clear.

Over his shoulder, he looked again at it. It was seated exactly as it had been, smiling expectantly in that singularly innocent way. Its bisque hands resting on its knees seemed incapable of artifice, incapable of offense. It was like a baby.

It blinked. It didn't need to blink -- its lubricants, more efficient than organic equivalents, needed only very occasional refreshment -- and it upset him now that he had included this ritual in its program, this facsimile of human fallibility. It upset him.

"I am R-2E-054," it repeated, uninflected in infinite patience, seeming only delighted to be alive, "What is your name?"

"Don't speak," tumbled the words out of him, slipping through his fingers, and he felt his cheeks becoming pink, "please, I ..."

Obediently, it waited, watching, smiling, smiling, smiling.

"God," he said, putting his hand into his waning hair, touching the glass and steel instruments arranged on his worktable, the messy assembly of blueprints and papers, spare washers and wires, the picture of his wife, seeking solace. He sagged rather than sat in the chair he had arranged facing the project.

He hid in himself for a while, and when he peeked out, the project smiled still.

"Excuse me," it begged him, very carefully, very congenially, extremely sweet.

Reflexively, he replied, "yes?"

"I am R-2E-054 --" it began, and he couldn't help but put out his hand to silence it, it must be admitted, brusquely.

"I know," he said finally, "I know what you are."

"What is your name?" it requested cheerfully.

Supplicatingly, helplessly, like a man praying for manna, he offered up his palms. He wanted to cry.

"I'm sorry," he told it, wincing when he heard his voice splinter, and sitting abruptly upright when the project leaned in, put its two beautiful koi-white hands in his large, stupid pink ones, and clasping them all together beneath its delicate snip of chin, told him:

"It's all right."

and then, he did cry.


End file.
